Fathom
by Glow
Summary: Louise fic. "Anyway, there’s really no point in dwelling on alternate universes where I lead an average, functional life, is there" [Complete]


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Rating: a mild R for some cursing, implied sex, and references to illegal substance use

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Characters: Louise. Mentions of Madeline, Paris, Rory and Francie. And an OC, but don't worry, not the annoying type (I hope).

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Spoilers: Anything that has aired in North America thus far.

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Disclaimer: Characters and places referenced do not belong to me, but to ASP, her production company, and the WB. Although, I must admitted I had fun playing in Louise's complicated mind.

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Authour's Notes: Once again, while on mass amounts of stimulants (caffeine and sugar cookies) a weird little fic is born. If you're expecting fluffy Troryness turn back now. This fic centers on Louise, it's angsty and a little dark. Thanks to Priya for the beta! Reviews, especially constructive reviews, are welcomed, as I kind of breaking out of my comfort zone. Enjoy.

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Fathom

"Mass blooms of these particular dinoflagellates are responsible for the red tides…" 

Oooh. Festive. Not for the first time this year, or this week even I sit pondering the supposed superiority of private schools. I have to ponder something to keep myself awake. I mean really, it's the day before Christmas break and here we are, last period and Mrs. Fitzgerald is lecturing about protists. She's flushed and kind of twitchy. How anyone can get so excited about algae and slime molds is beyond my comprehension. Blah, blah, blah unicellular organisms, blah, blah, blah eukaryotes. Fascinating. If the definition of 'fascinating' became 'so boring the idea of scratching out your eardrums to be excused from class and escape from the black hole of boringness to the nurses office' and somehow, I didn't get the memo. I have to concentrate on something. If my eyes close for an extended interval or I yawn I'll surely get a detention. Nevermind that Christmas Break starts in an hour I'll get one. She's kind of a bitch. It's understandable. Her salary as a teacher (even a teacher at Chilton) would barely cover my yearly spa bill. And I bet she hasn't had sex since 1988. Being poor and frustrated would make anyone a bitch.  
  
_"If ingested by humans and not treated immediately the brain will swell, often resulting in brain damage." _

Ick. That sounds highly unpleasant. Although, the mental image of Mrs. Fitzgerald's head swelled up and leaking cerebrospinal fluid is somewhat vindicating. Where was I? Right. Public vs. private education. See, if I were someone other than me, and my family consisted of people other than the generations of affluent East Coast snobs, I could be sitting in a classroom at Hartford High or some other place, having a low budget little Christmas party, stuffing my face with gingerbread men and pine tree shaped rice krispy squares and _watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. But I'm me and they're them and we don't do low budget, I don't eat gingerbread men (because, as my mother says, "Nobody will like you if you're fat") and _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ is for kids. Poor kids. Did you know that snob is derived from a word that means low class? Kind of funny how that worked out. Anyway, there's really no point in dwelling on alternate universes where I lead an average, functional life, is there? I'm a pragmatic kind of person, most people don't realize that about me. 

But all the pragmatism in the world can't stop me from thinking it would be nice. 

Jesus, did I just think that? It was such a gushy sort of thought. Not my style. Must've been the vodka I drank before class. Thanks Tyler. No, I'm not drunk. I have no desire to get expelled halfway through my final year thank you very much. A little alcohol just tends to make my neurotransmissions go for a stroll off the path they usually stick to.

Tyler Parker approached me before class, offering me a little bit of pre-holiday cheer, as he called it. I took it, figuring I'd need it. Madeline's been singing that stupid Destiny's Child version of _Twelve Days of Christmas_ all damn day. It's been stuck in her head, and the she believes the only way to get it out is to sing it out loud. It's driving me utterly insane. And Paris has been nagging me to pay attention all day. She doesn't believe in slacking off. She's behind me right now, furiously writing notes. I swear one day she's going to have an aneurysm. Either that or spontaneously combust. They say it's almost impossible to do but Paris likes to prove people wrong. 

Tyler Parker, you see, has that whole tortured artist thing going for him. Long black hair, shockingly blue eyes, stubble, tattoos. Guitarist hands. It was those hands, wrapped around the bottle, long, lean and callused that my eyes strayed to and lingered at. I remembered those hands well. I ran into him in the hallway outside the bathroom at some party last weekend. I was a little tipsy from all the Jell-O shots and wine coolers and I'm pretty sure he was high on something, too. He's eyes were red. I had stumbled a little (I always tell myself not to wear heels, but I always do) and he grabbed my arms before I could fall. Our eyes met, and I found my hand wrapped in his shirt, yanking him into the bathroom I'd just vacated. Next thing I knew my naked back was pressed into the cold tile floor of the bathroom and my nails were digging into his skin as his hands traced a path down my body. We didn't bother locking the door. I barely knew him and he barely knew me. 

Maybe it's better that way. 

He'd always just been some vaguely hot guy in my peripheral vision. He doesn't really belong to my social circle. He's kind of a loner and not from the 'right' sort of family. I say social circle like I have this big group of friends around me. And that's true, if you use the term friends loosely. I can count the people I genuinely like at this school on one hand, and then you have the extended group of 'friends.' These are the people I've known since kindergarten. There's the girls who I'm friendly with in public (air kisses and shared compacts) but, and this is a dirty little secret, in actuality who I hate.

Intensely. 

Why, one wonders, do I associate with them then? Simple. It's expected. Our parents went to high school/college together (and hated each other) and our nannies were from the same Central American country (whichever happened to be trendy at the time), so naturally we ended up enrolled in the same pre-school, elementary school, etc. It's a nasty, self-perpetuating cycle. Appearances are very important in a tax bracket such as ours. Ask anyone outside of Chilton, over the age of 21, about one of us and they'd say, "Oh, that (insert name here) is such a lovely girl! So kind and considerate and smart!" and a whole bunch of other stuff that couldn't be farther from the truth. Ask anyone within these walls about a classmate (except for people like Paris, who deems gossip a waste of time, or Rory who are a little to innocent to believe the things that go on) and they could tell you things that would make a Dutch hooker blush because privately, we gossip and spread rumors (there's even a message board online where the really good ones are posted) about our supposed friends. Some of them are lies but most of it is true. If I get a bad grade they'll murmur sympathetically but as soon as I'm out of earshot they'll say they knew I was stupid, and the only reason my grades are good is because I've been screwing Headmaster Charleston senseless once a week since freshman year. I'd do the same thing to someone else. This is our youth, ladies and gentleman. Harsh but true. We're going to be politicians and lawyers one day, so isn't it good that we learn a flexible moral code early on? We've learned from our parents. Except, instead of doing it wearing uniforms in the hallways, they do it in Donna Karan eveningwear in the ballroom at the latest charity fundraiser. 

And then they congratulate themselves for being philanthropic. 

Anyway, back to Tyler Parker. I'm awfully tangenty today. So, yes, until that weekend we'd never really talked (and really, we didn't do much talking then either). Several girls I know have asked him out, but he's always refused. He seems to hold our treacherous little universe in the greatest of contempt. Much like his parents. Apparently, since moving to Hartford they've systematically refused all invitations to social gatherings. If it's for charity they'll send a check, but that's it. My mother thinks they have superiority complexes (she's been in therapy for years, likes to throw the jargon around). I think they're just smarter than your average elitist. 

Less than an hour ago he cornered me, ran his hand up my back in a way that made me remember certain things and offered me the bottle. I had quirked an eyebrow at him, accepted the proffered bottle and took a healthy gulp. He had looked surprised, probably expecting me to ignore him. I smirked at him and handed the bottle back, gliding into his personal space and winking suggestively. His eyes widened fractionally as I stood on my toes, my lips sliding across his neck and cheek, up towards his ear. I could hear his heart pounding. Poor deluded boy. I allowed my tongue to dart out and it flicked a sensitive spot underneath his ear. "Thanks," I breathed, and set off down the hall, not bothering to glance back. It's always nice to get a little something back while your blowing a guy off. 

Tyler, it seems, isn't wise to the way situations like these generally work out. He was looking like me like he wanted something more, which just doesn't happen. My personal rule: three dates or sex. Whichever comes first. The word 'relationship' never gets used. I like things simple, clean and uncomplicated. No ties, no guilt. Just a mutual satisfaction of hormones. I almost feel a little bad. He seems like the flowers and romance type. 

And as far as I know he hasn't told anyone about what we did either. Odd. Sex with Louise Grant is kind of a status symbol for guys and in a twisted way I'm proud of that. See, usually something like that would be all over the place. The Chilton gossip circuit knows everything and by lunchtime at Monday everyone's prattling away about who slept with whom, where, and in what position. It stopped bothering me years ago. 

Sometimes, though, the gossip can get pretty malicious. Lucky for me though, Madeline is kind of a prominent figure in the gossip chain and she gives me a heads up if they're saying anything too damaging. I can generally squash it pretty quickly. Power has its benefits. And if I can't Paris can. I've only had to go to her once though. Last year, I had pissed of Francie (The Puff Queen) bad enough that she was wishing for telekinetic powers so she could pull a Carrie and kill me in as gruesome as way possible. So she and he followers got to work spreading some shit about the lacrosse team and me. It got ugly. I'm just lucky Paris can be so damn scary. 

God. If people could hear my thoughts. That Louise, such a slut, they'd say. And you know what? I don't give a fuck. In 7th grade, I kissed a boy for the first time with tongue and I liked it. So I kissed some more boys. It just so happened that one of these boys was the object of a certain girl's affection. That was the first time I was called a slut. But you know, even then, I didn't really care. I liked boys, still do. I flirted with them and they liked me and I grew up into that kind of girl. You know the one. The one who carries condoms in her purse, who has the audacity to wear tight shirts (not because she's proud of her body, that's not possible, but because she knows boys can't control themselves and wants to steal the boyfriends of the 'good' girls), who wants sex and likes it. Girls aren't supposed to be like that, you know. Their supposed to be demure, keep their legs closed and wait until they have a ring on their finger. 

That's not me. 

And now you say, 'Oh, poor dear. She must have such low self-esteem," which I don't. I know I'm smart, and I know I'm beautiful and that coupled with being rich means that I can do anything I want, and be anything I want. That may sound conceited, and it probably is. That doesn't stop it from being true. 

And no, I don't do it to get my parents attention. Although, maybe it, along with various experiments with illegal substances was in the beginning. Now I realize that they couldn't care less. Hell, my mom walked in on Cam Landon and I doing it next to the pool (not in, because that's not safe) and didn't bat an eyelash. She knows how it works. And as far as the drugs and alcohol go, well, lets just say that they can't really say anything about it. My mother's medicine cabinet is more stocked than a dispensary and my father has a flask to match every suit. We have a don't ask, don't tell kind of system for that stuff. And besides, it's not as if I do anything dangerous. I call a cab if I'm drunk, and as far as drugs go, I'm not stupid enough to stick a needle in my arm. And even if I was stupid, needles creep me out. I stick to the simple stuff. I've been on the pill for years, I won't sleep with a guy without a condom, and I get checked out every six months. I'm not self destructive, I have no death wish. I just do what feels good, to hell with my parents. To hell with being a 'good' girl.

'Good' girls finish last, didn't you know? 

Besides, if I really wanted attention all I'd have to do is forego college like my cousin Annabelle. They're pissed enough that I decided to go to Sarah Lawrence. Annabelle wants to be a painter (she's good at it too, I have a landscape she did in my bedroom) so she emptied her bank accounts and ran off to Italy a few years ago. No one's really heard from her since, and its kind of off limits as dinner conversation. My family believes that if you don't talk about something, it ceases to exist by sheer force of will. When I told them I where I wanted to go they didn't speak for a good two minutes. They assumed I would attend Dartmouth like my father or Brown like my mother (which, by the way, was a colossal waste of money. It's not like she used he English degree in her current occupation as a trophy wife). An Ivy League school, at the very least. Assumed, I say, because they never actually discussed it, my life, my future, with me. But no, I got confirmation of my acceptance last week, and I'm going. They even offered me a good scholarship package, so if my parents decide to get spiteful and refuse to pay my tuition I'm going anyway. 

When I told Paris that last week she was pretty amazed, almost speechless, which is rare for her. About the last part, I mean. She knows my grades are good and as I've done almost as many extra curricular activities (minus the really obsessive ones, I'm not about to harass anyone to let me spend my Thanksgiving in a soup kitchen) as she has. I would be offended if I didn't completely understand. I do enjoy the finer things in life. But if my parent's cut me off, I wouldn't care. I mean, I'd care, but that's not going to stop me. I want out of my house, and away from my parents and all their issues and histrionics. I want away from the school and these stupid uniforms and 99 percent of the people who go here. I'll keep in touch with Paris and Madeline, maybe even Rory Gilmore, but otherwise I'll see the rest of them at our ten-year reunion. If I decide to go. And if that means I have to eat macaroni and cheese and buy non-designer clothes I'll do it. More than anything I want to be somewhere where no one knows me, and no one expects me to be a certain way, a way I'm almost certain isn't the real me. 

The 'real' me? Hell. Maybe there isn't a real me.

There I go again with the gushy thoughts. I really have to stop being so introspective. It can't be good for me. What's that my mother says? Thinking gives you wrinkles. She should know. She hasn't had a thought go through her head in the last twenty-five years that wasn't explicitly approved. And she doesn't look a day over 30. Maybe it's the hive mind, but I'm betting it's the face-lifts. Whatever. Better to focus on the here and now. Class will be over in a few minutes. I'm going to Madeline's after school. 

She's having a party. 


End file.
